taken by my father, later he turned his photograph into a stained glass piece

tonight i was watching a movie.  she was something special, she was complex, she was she had a messed up relationship with her father.  he was still alive. she had a chance.  they worked it out. i stood up, tears in my eyes.  i went and looked at the painting of the girls, as he called them.  ‘how are my girls?’ he’d ask.  if i ever decided to part with it, he wanted it.  it is in the dining room now – against a gray backdrop, they are near but not as close as they once were.  i couldn’t look at them every day.  i was living in colorado, and found a junk shop on the side of the road, this trailer that, behind some other things, the girls lay on their side.  no price tags.  i offered her $20.  every place i moved i stuck the painting behind the seat of my little truck. and in my home, they rest, a reminder of the man, a reminder of the years.  tonight i didn’t just looked past them, i looked into them, and i remembered.  and for a time i allowed myself to crumble.

triggers come fewer and farther between, but they do come. and they will go.


One thought on “triggers

  1. sometimes i turn away from the triggers. sometimes triggers are white heat. i don't run from them, just turn from them. i tell myself i don't have to burn, not like that. burn like Kerouac says, but not like that.



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